


and let his mother’s heart be glad

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Breeding, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Discussion of Abortion, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Pregnancy, Id Fic, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Misgendering, Trans Armitage Hux, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, corrective rape, deadnaming, implied child prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Nothing about this is merciful."Armitage wants to live as himself.Brendol exacts a price.This fic will disturb. Please consider the triggers carefully before reading.





	1. Iphigenia

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warning:**  
>     
> This story will depict the explicit sexual assault of a transgender minor. It also features transphobic/cissexist language. Do not read this if you are underage. Do not read this if you think it will distress you or otherwise cause you harm.
> 
> If the existence of this work upsets you, please press "back", then scroll by and be at peace.

The snap of the scissors. The sound of father's feet on the stairs. An itching about the neck, a prickling of fear. Suddenly Brendol is there, towering over Sheevani Hux in their small fresher, furious eyes fixed on the clumps of red hair at his child's feet.

But the expected punch does not come. Brendol's expression narrows into a calculating calm. He crouches down.

"It seems I can't beat this out of you after all," he hisses, and pries the scissors viciously out of the tiny hand. "Fine. I'll offer you a deal. I'll let you carry on with this - this _boy_ nonsense until you're tired of it. In return, when the time comes, you'll give me an heir. One who isn't _defective_. You understand what that entails, don't you, Sheeva? What you'll need to do for me?"

The child looks up at him, now without fear.

"Armitage," he says. "My name is _Armitage Hux._ "

* * *

He does not, in the end, get tired of it. Instead he grows into a fine young man, by everyone's definition except Brendol's. Still, without medical assistance, the differences between he and the other boys quickly become apparent as he approaches the age of fourteen. One morning, breasts aching unprecedentedly in their bindings, he escapes to the fresher after morning drills to find blood gathering dark in his underwear, and weeps for the first time since he was five years old.

He never works out how the information reaches his father. Certainly it isn't Sloane, who comes to his rescue later that day with dignity and supplies and the promise of silence. But it hardly matters. Within a week, Brendol is summoning him to his boxy and makeshift office, the best their meagre compound in the Unknown Regions can offer, although Armitage knows instinctively that they are destined for greater surroundings.

"It's time for you to make good on your promise," Brendol tells him acidly. "You'll report to Lieutenant Canady's quarters in three days' time, after evening drills. And don't embarrass me with incompetence. If you don't bloody know how it all works yet, I'm sure there's something in the databanks that will help."

Armitage feels his entire body go cold. Though he'd never deluded himself that Brendol wouldn't hold him to his promise, to hear it spoken about like this makes it feel real in a way it never was before. He speaks without thinking, and a chill, clipped edge to his words.

"Will I, now? Tell me, is Grand Admiral Sloane aware of this arrangement?"

Brendol's heavy-jowled face tightens with anger. A tense moment passes as he composes his response.

"Grand Admiral Sloane acts in the best interests of the Order. And the Order needs children." He makes a throwaway gesture with his hand, deceptively casual. "I'm sure she'd take steps to intervene. Perhaps she'd even reprimand me. But if something were to _happen_ to you regardless, something _ugly_ and _undignified_ that couldn't possibly be traced back to me, and you ended up with child _anyway_ -" Brendol holds his son's gaze, lips twitching in a sneer. "Do you imagine she'd make it easy for you to terminate your pregnancy? Do you think she'd put aside her devotion to our cause for your _personal sensibilities_?"

Frozen with hatred, Hux does not answer. His father continues.

"Those teenage soldiers of yours might well follow your commands, but _my_ authority supersedes yours. If I give them an order, they will obey. No matter how much they might fear you. Do you understand?" The Commandant fixes him with a dark look. Hux doesn't realize he's speaking until he registers the sound of his own voice coming from far away.

"Yes, sir. I understand."


	2. Chryseis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rank structure in the FO seems to be a case of throwing darts at naval terms, but I've done my best to make it make sense.

"... a child who won't fail us. We can't afford to let our sensibilities get in the way. You and I know that the Empire's one bloody failing could be the end of us. Do you know how many women were aboard the average Imperial Star Destroyer? Five percent of the crew, and the _Eclipse_ wasn't much above that. I need a competent successor, Moden."

If you stand still in the shadows for long enough, you become invisible. Armitage keeps his breaths quiet as Brendol's voice filters through the open window above him. The oncoming night has sapped the warmth from the ferrocrete ground, and he shifts carefully into a crouch, back braced against the outer wall of the low building in which his father is calmly justifying statutory rape.

Tritt Opan's voice is a quiet murmur, too soft for Armitage to make out his words, but he can infer at least some of them from Brendol's reply. "He's _had_ time, Tritt, and he's hardly a boy. He just _thinks_ he is. In ten years time he'll be calling himself Sheevani Hux again and not a single damn officer in the Order will take him seriously."

"Be that as it may, Commandant-" This is Canady. "If you insist that your successor be related to you, sooner or later people are going to start accusing you of dynasticism, which goes against everything the Order stands for."

"And if Armitage had been a legitimate heir, I'd agree with you," Brendol says. "As it stands, he's a mistake I've made the best of. His child will be the same. A stupid teenage indiscretion, father unknown - and far better for both your careers if that remains the official story. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course, sir," Canady replies. Tritt says nothing, or not that Armitage can hear. As the three of them murmur their goodbyes, the boy flattens himself up against the wall and waits. The doors slide open. Two uniformed figures walk out into the evening. The slimmer of the two pauses, casting a glance back at the shadows.

"Actually, I think should head straight back to my quarters," he says, his words quiet but clear. Moden's head turns; after a moment he shrugs.

"Fair enough. I still need a stiff drink, after that conversation," he murmurs before he leaves. Tritt watches him go. He directs a slow, deliberate look toward the shadows and then turns on his heel, heading for the squat residential complex past the cadet barracks. Armitage counts down from two hundred before following.

* * *

"I thought it might be you." 

Opan is still waiting outside the building when Armitage gets there. The officers' residences are little more than series of small ferrocrete huts, each equipped with their own bedroom and rudimentary fresher. It's unusual for a 2nd Lieutenant to have his own quarters, but his position as Brendol's aide affords him certain privileges - and out here in the Unknown Regions, rank seems to have become more of an arbitrary indication of favour rather than a measure of seniority. 

Already corruption is seeping in. When Armitage is in charge - and he _will_ be, one day - he will forge the Order into what it was always meant to be. 

He just needs to stay alive until then. 

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asks. Tritt sighs, but he still holds the door open for the young cadet, and remains standing when Armitage moves to sit on his bed, an overcautious gesture of respect for the Commandant's son. 

"I can't stop this from happening, Armitage," he says gently. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking you to." Armitage unbuttons his cadet's jacket and shrugs it off under Opan's wary gaze. He takes off his cap and leans back, suddenly conscious of his skinny arms, the uneven plane of his chest beneath the white undershirt. How could anyone look at this and feel desire? But he tries anyway; keeps his eyes on Tritt's, tries to look inviting as he reaches for his own belt- 

"Armitage." There is pity in the older man's expression, and pain. He crosses the distance in two quick strides and grabs the boy's wrist. 

Hux is not so easily deterred; his other hand moves to rest against Opan's thigh, and he wants to speak, wants to deploy all those persuasive tricks he's already prepared for this moment but all he can think of to say now is, "Please. I don't want him to be my first. _Please._ "

" _Armitage._ " Tritt pries the hand away, but keeps hold of it. "You're a child." He sinks down into a crouch, and the tenor of those calm, dark eyes makes Hux want to cry. 

"My father doesn't share your reservations," he spits, covering his embarrassment with spite. Opan glances down. 

"It's not my place to criticise the Commandant's orders," he says quietly. 

"You and I both know that as soon as my-" It's hard to voice the concept without his voice cracking. "-my child is old enough, he'll have no more need for me." Which is why he needs Opan. Because Opan will be the one Brendol turns to, when it's time to get rid of him. And because he is kind. It has been far too long since Armitage has been touched by somebody who is kind. He tries to pull him close, to capture the Lieutenant's lips in a desperate and clumsy kiss, but suddenly there's a lump in his throat and he's choking his shame against Tritt's shoulder, sobbing into the dark fabric as those slim arms encircle him. 

Opan holds him until he stops weeping, then carefully helps him into his jacket, and sends him back out into the night.


	3. Astyanax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for explicit sexual assault.

It feels like waiting to be executed.

By the end of the third day, Armitage feels himself trembling on the inside. It is only fear of his father's ire that eventually drives him to make that long walk across the compound; the knowledge that Canady is still the lesser of two indignities. Better for his pride that he should fling himself over that precipice than allow himself to be dragged.

Moden doesn't look at him when the doors open, just gestures him inside with a resentful glance at the ground. The Lieutenant's rooms are nicer than Opan's. The bed is a double. There's a fucking _towel_ on it, of all possible indignities... Armitage avoids looking at it.

"I'm no happier with this arrangement than you are," Canady tells him gruffly, although the firm hand on his arm leads Hux to believe that's a lie. "Get undressed and lie down. Let's get this over with."

Hux strips down to his vest and boxers, trying to distance himself from his own body, except for all his efforts his mind seems to be doing the opposite. He can feel everything - the subtle jag of the stitching inside his boots as he pulls them off, the sweat prickling on his skin beneath the homemade binder, the cool press of the pillow through the shorn hair at the base of his skull. There are uneven patches on the ceiling. He feels the bed dip as Canady moves onto it. His fists clench beside him.

"Take that bloody ridiculous thing off," the older man murmurs. Hux doesn't look at him, just grits his jaw and lifts his hips to slide down his underwear. It feels clinical. Nauseating. He hears Moden sigh and reach for the hem of his binder. Hux pushes his hand away. 

"Just get on with it," he breathes, arm crossed over his chest. He wants to spit the words, snap them, but all the air seems to have gone from his lungs. Canady swears under his breath and tries to pry his wrist away; Armitage hits him. 

"Fuck's sake," the older man spits, and for a moment his arm draws back and Armitage is five years old again, awaiting the sting of his father's hand, but the hit never comes. Suddenly the mattress is shifting again and Moden is moving across the room, irritatedly picking up a bottle of something from his dresser and tugging off the cap. Hux's skin is cold and clammy, his breaths constricted, and taking off the binder starts to feel like a good idea after all, but he can't bring himself to do it, can't even bring himself to move. Canady has to practically yank him into a sitting position by the arm, like a tantruming child. Something is pressed into his hand.

"Drink," Moden tells him. Hux knocks it back in one. It tastes of nothing; it tastes of fire. He feels the man's callused fingers under the back of his binder and this time he lets him do it, even helps him, because it's too tight to just pull off - that's the whole point - and then he's lying on his back again with Canady's full weight on him, and he doesn't want to think about what Moden's hands are doing, but it hurts, he's inside him and it _hurts_. 

And he feels everything. The press of the man's slight paunch against his stomach. The prickle of the towel against his bare hips. A hand on his chest, grabbing - a splitting, searing pain. Moden's breath smells of alcohol. 

Nothing about this is merciful. 

Canady's breaths are laboured. After an eternity, he groans, deep and guttural, and his cock pulses inside him. Armitage feels a horrible slickness between his legs. And then it's over. 

"Get dressed. Next time will be easier." A hand passes over his hair. _Next time_. It makes him want to vomit. There's blood and semen on the towel under him. He sits in Canady's fresher until the man barks at him to get dressed and go home. 

He doesn't remember anything about the journey, but eventually he's back in his bed and the ceiling is the exact same shade as Moden's. He stares at it until the sunlight breaks through his window, bright and cold and harsh.


	4. Briseis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for implied child prostitution and sexual assault.

He gets up the next morning and carries on. What else can he do? It's no good talking to Sloane about it, not now he's become complicit in his own violation.

His hips ache all day. His skin feels cold, hypersensitive. He's sore between his legs, a soreness that invokes parts of his body he never wanted to think about in the first place.

Hux's feet pound the alien dust as he runs laps around the compound. The equations in his programming textbook seem to burn into his retinas, stark and black. During drills he screams orders until his throat is raw. A few times he glimpses Tritt at the edges of his vision, but turns away. He does not want to speak to him now.

Brendol gives him one night's reprieve. Then it's back to Canady's quarters again, no towel on the bed this time, not now the deflowering is over with, and he stares at the ceiling as the older man grunts obscenely over him, fucks into him, squeezes painfully at his developing chest. Armitage considers not washing, leaving his teeth unbrushed and his body foul so Moden enjoys it as little as possible, but the prospect disgusts him and he ends up scrubbing himself clean before and after, a threshold of scoured skin at either side of the event as if to separate it from everything else.

After the third night with Canady he's called to the landing pads outside the walls. He stands to attention, flanked by four of his child soldiers - less children than hard-faced teenagers now. The shuttle that touches down is one of the command shuttles from the _Eclipse_. Lieutenant Peavey descends the ramp along with two junior officers and a small battery of ragged-looking children ranging from about eight to sixteen. Brendol steps forward to greet them. 

"These are the new recruits?" 

"Yes, sir." Peavey prompts them to line up. There are six in total - four girls, two boys, all varying degrees of filthy. Brendol looks at them with a hint of disgust. 

"Have your troops show them where to get cleaned up and then bring them to the mess," he tells Armitage, who gives a nod to the two young soldiers at his right. They escort the group back toward the compound, Brendol's gaze lingering after them. 

"Anything promising, Lieutenant?" he asks. 

"I want to put Dopheld there through advanced testing." Peavey nods toward the retreating children. "The youngest one. Dark hair. The others - well, I'm sure they'll be useful somewhere. They all seem mostly healthy." 

"The tall one's a bit old," Brendol comments. Armitage glances back again, trying to see who he's referring to. There's a light-haired young woman at the back of the group, long-limbed and clumsy-looking. 

"Seventeen, but she's highly competent with the younger ones. Might also be helpful on further excursions; she seems bright enough." 

"Can she have children?" 

Peavey hesitates, shakes his head. "No, sir. Prostitution," he explains. "The other three girls are a _possible_ , but Nessa is barren." 

"She'd better have something to contribute," Brendol mutters, then gives a swift shake of his head. "Nonetheless. Good work, Lieutenant. Dismissed. You too, Cadet." 

He finds Nessa in the mess hall, with the boy Dopheld cuddled up next to her, having his face wiped free of crumbs. Hux hesitates before lowering himself into the seat opposite her, and his words come out less kindly than he'd intended. 

"You'll need to stop coddling them if they're to succeed here." He glances at the child's eyes, which are a little fearful, and weary in a way that most children's aren't. Armitage wonders if his eyes are the same now. "It's for their own good." 

The young woman pats Dopheld on the shoulder and inches away from him obediently. 

"You're the Commandant's son," she says. Her eyes dart over him curiously. Her face is angular and heavy, with a declining softness that suggested she might have been a prettier child. "You're very young."

Hux feels himself bristle. _Not too young to have my father's cronies stick their cocks into,_ he thinks, involuntarily. The comment irks him for other reasons, too: he's already the best part of a decade ahead of her, in terms of training, and who exactly does she think she's talking to? 

And then he remembers what Peavey said about her, the implications of it; looks again at Dopheld's big, shadowed eyes.

"So is he," Armitage says, abrupt and quiet. Nessa gives him a curious look. "Let's talk. Away from here. I'll come and find you," he continues, and stands up again. 

"Alright." Nessa's eyes are still wary, but there is a kind of understanding there too, or so Hux likes to imagine. He feels as if he can trust her. He doesn't think too hard about why.


End file.
